Shukov went off to sleep, and he was completely content. Fate had been kind to him in many ways that day: he hadn’t been put in the cells, the gang hadn’t been sent to the Socialist Community Centre, he’d fiddled himself an extra bowl of porridge for dinner, the gang leader had fixed a good percentage, he’d been happy building that wall, he’d slipped through the search with that bit of blade, he’d earned himself something from Tsesar in the evening, he’d bought his tobacco. And he hadn’t fallen ill—he had overcome his sickness of the morning. The day had…
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